ability to master difficult academic subjects. His sense of decorum still left something to be desired, but at least he had learned the consequences of misconduct and, presumably, benefited from his punishment. He also had learned a number of practical things as a result of his athletic participation and his summer cruises. By the time he graduated, he had spent eight months and twenty-seven days afloat, most of that under sail. From these experiences he learned a life-long respect for seamanship and all manner of things to do with ships. Some of this may be attributed to the changes in the academy’s curriculum, in that more and more emphasis was being placed on shiphandling. Physical changes were also taking place in Annapolis; acreage was added to the grounds and the Board of Visitors began agitating for some uniformity in architecture. The renaissance of the school’s physical plant was yet to come, but like Naval Cadet Hart, the academy was poised to spring into a new and exciting period.
But first there was what should have been a triumphal return home on a short leave. However, as he would have been the first to admit, his activities at the academy, in things nonacademic, could hardly be pointed to with pride, and the results of some of his indiscretions could not be swept away with a diploma. Therefore, when Tommy Hart returned to Michigan he brought a sheepskin and a handful of bills for debts unwisely incurred. His father reached for the diploma and did not even look at the bills; they were Tommy’s personal property. Hence Tommy Hart would have slowly to pay off his debts, and buy his meals, all on the ninety dollars per month he would earn for the next two years.
At this period in the navy’s history, getting a commission took six years rather than four. This meant that Hart, now a passed midshipman, would spend two years at sea before taking his final examinations and receiving his commission. He always contended that luck played a large role in his career, and events during his two-year probationary period would seem to imply a reasonable share of good fortune.
The first happy stroke was his assignment to the battleship Massachusetts, sister ship of the Oregon and Indiana. These three were the most modern and heaviest ships in the newly augmented U.S. armada. Laid down in 1891, the Massachusetts displaced 10,288 tons and was capable of 16 knots. She boasted four 13-inch guns in two turrets, eight 8-inch guns, four 6-inch guns, and twenty 6-pounders. In addition, she was armed with numerous smaller weapons and six Whitehead torpedo tubes. For defense, she boasted an 18-inch steel belt and a 2¾-inch armored dec1: to protect against plunging fire. Even during normal times, landing an assignment on the Massachusetts would be a plum, but the fall of 1897 was not a normal time. For tensions were increasing between Spain and the United States over that ancient European power’s handling of troubles in Cuba.
The stage was small and although the resulting conflict would seem to present-day Americans to be minor, to students of international affairs the implications were vast, the change in the nation’s course portentous. Participants would doubtless agree: it was the first real conflict since the Civil War more than a generation before; and while some may argue about the modernity of that struggle, there was no question that for the navy, at least, the Spanish-American War was far more modern than transitional.
The man elected president in 1896, William McKinley, was explicitly and emphatically opposed to war—at least so he had said during his campaign and privately afterwards. It is difficult to be entirely sure about McKinley, though, and historians continue to bicker about his strength of character, resolve, malleability, political acumen, and ultimately his room for maneuver.16 One thing is certain, however: on 15 February 1898, his options became considerably more restricted. On that date the battleship Maine, sent to Havana presumably to protect American lives and property during the impending civil conflict, blew up and went to the bottom of Havana Harbor, the victim of a dastardly attack, or so the American press concluded.17 A Naval Board of Inquiry rushed to Havana, where with full Spanish cooperation, an investigation was conducted. Meanwhile diplomatic negotiations went forward between the Spanish and the U.S. governments with the object of ending the rebellion in Cuba. The United States wanted the Spanish to take a series of steps and make guarantees; Spain believed the Americans were interfering in its internal affairs, but reluctantly and very slowly conceded point after point.
According to the Naval Board’s findings, which were reported to Washington on 21 March, the Maine was sunk by an external explosion, most probably caused by a mine. The buckling of her plates and keel surrounding one of her bunkers pointed ineluctably to this conclusion. Pressure now was exerted in earnest against Spain, while the press and segments of the public went wild. “Remember the Maine. To hell with Spain” became the cry. Congress responded to the public clamor and McKinley either lost his will to resist the tide of emotion or decided to drift in the direction he wanted to go, anyway. Regardless of his intent, the result was demands that the Spanish felt compelled to reject. Albeit reluctantly, Spain declared war on the United States, and the United States responded similarly, albeit retroactively, on 25 April 1898, declaring war as of 21 April.
War! On 25 April 1898 the word raced through the 384-foot-long Massachusetts as she lay at anchor off Hampton Roads. The government had finally elected to take action and, since that was the case, there would surely be action for the modern battleship, but how and where? News soon arrived that Admiral Pascual Cervera was sailing for the Western Hemisphere from his base in the Cape Verde Islands.18 While the more dramatically inclined considered it possible that he might bombard the Atlantic coast of the United States, the newly formed Naval War Board considered it far more likely that he would head for Cuba. The public furor was so intense, however, that it was decided to divide the North Atlantic Squadron in two. The force that retained the name “Atlantic Squadron” was sent to Key West under the command of Acting Rear Admiral William T. Sampson. Part of Sampson’s job was to guard against an attack on Key West, but more importantly to prepare to take offensive action against Cuba or Puerto Rico. The remainder of the ships were christened the “Flying Squadron” and stationed at Norfolk under command of Commodore Winfield Scott Schley. Schley’s job was to prepare for defensive action against an attack anywhere along the Atlantic coast.
Sampson, as his last name implies, was not inclined to passively await his opponent’s moves; Cervera was at sea and the U.S. admiral wanted to intercept him at the earliest possible moment. Therefore, on 3 May he removed some of the ships from the blockade he had established two weeks earlier outside Havana Harbor and sailed east. Sampson calculated that Cervera and his fleet, which consisted of four cruisers and two destroyers, would duck into Puerto Rico for coaling. If Sampson could find him there, the U.S. force, which included the battleships Iowa and Indiana, the armored cruiser New York, two monitors, and a torpedo boat, should be able to end the naval war in the Atlantic very quickly. The problem proved to be finding the Spanish admiral, who figured things pretty much the way Sampson did. As Sampson arrived off Puerto Rico, Cervera was a thousand miles to the south, passing Martinique, whence he proceeded to Curaçao, and arrived at Santiago de Cuba on 19 May.
On that same day, Sampson, realizing the wily Spaniard had given him the slip, ordered Schley to sail for Cuba. Since the Massachusetts was part of Schley’s Flying Squadron, Tommy Hart’s first wartime action was about to begin. Within four days the squadron stood in to reconnoiter Cienfuegos Harbor. Since smoke was sighted, Schley considered it possible that Cervera lurked within, so he established a blockade four miles offshore. Amidst growing criticism of Sampson’s inability to find Cervera, as well as indications that the Spanish fleet might be at Santiago, on 23 May Sampson ordered Schley to steam for that port. In a movement later condemned for its slowness, Schley sailed west. Hampered by bad weather, high seas, a declining supply of coal, and perhaps some doubt that Cervera was at Santiago, Schley did not arrive off that port and establish a picket line until 28 May. The next morning, much to his pleasure and no doubt the general excitement of his crew, the masts of the cruiser Cristóbal Colón were clearly sighted. At last the enemy had been found. Word was sent to Sampson, who arrived on 1 June, his force strengthened by the battleship Oregon, which had steamed from the Pacific, through the Strait of Magellan, to join the war.
So, the
